


kind eyes

by untilwefallinlove



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angel Sam Wilson, Angel!Au, Demon!AU, F/M, Smut, some gore, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untilwefallinlove/pseuds/untilwefallinlove
Summary: You remember him with warmth, like he had swallowed a star and you were lucky enough to wish upon him. In his half form; when he looks mortal and dark skinned and gleaming, with his beautiful, feathered brown and glory gold wings. Always with a brilliant smile, with eyes so dark and shining.Samuel. To you, only Sam.(for a writing challenge on tumblr, my prompt was a quote from the show Penny Dreadful: Kind eyes can look upon anything and find it beautiful.)
Relationships: Sam Wilson/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	kind eyes

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys!! i love sam and he's already an angel in my eyes so this is hardly an au
> 
> pls enjoy!!! let me know what you think!

The sky opens wide and swallows you whole, sucks you fast and hot into its open jaws. You are helpless, lost to it, wings snagging and catching, unable to find a steady beat, a safe rhythm that will save you from the unforgiving ground that rapidly approaches. Your wings burn and stretch and twist unnaturally with the sharp, wrenching pull of gravity that plummets you down, down, down.

You are lost, you think, unable to right yourself, unable to save yourself this time. As if there was any hope in the first place, as if you could’ve stopped this fall once it had been decreed. Once you’d been sentenced to it.

You shut your eyes and stop fighting, the wind whistling through your ears. Your wings shake and thrash and scorch. You are heavenfire and damnation and the breaking of bones and vows; the pull  _ snap  _ of your heart and your wings. 

You hit the ground like a comet, burning and bright and broken. 

There is agony and flame and darkness. There is pain,  _ such _ great, unyielding and rattling pain in your ribs and your head and wings. 

_ I wish to die, _ you think,  _ I wish for it all stop. Please, please, God, please.  _

The prayer forms so effortlessly, so easily that you forget who did this to you.

So you open your mouth and let loose a cry, choked and wet and like the first, wobbling cry of a newborn into an unforgiving and brutal world. 

* * *

_ You remember him with warmth, like he had swallowed a star and you were lucky enough to wish upon him. In his half form; when he looks mortal and dark skinned and gleaming, with his beautiful, feathered brown and glory gold wings. Always with a brilliant smile, with eyes so dark and shining.  _

_ Samuel. To you, only Sam.  _

_ And you remember his full form, too. Grander and more stunning somehow, with thorned wings and light pouring through his body, his eyes hollow and piercing and burning. Like he was dipped in heavenfire and holy water and sunlight. No mortal could look upon him then, and even you— even you and the other angels had to squint at his radiance. Always too strong, too good. The best of you.  _

_ You remember his hand on your shoulder, fixing your stance and your wings and the sword in your hand.  _

_ “Like this,” He murmurs, training you to be a soldier. A soldier like him and like the others. It is all you know. He makes you stronger, broader. More powerful. He touches your waist, sets your skin aflame. “There,” He softens, “That’s it, now tighten your core.”  _

_ And his hands are there, too, broad and large as he flattens them to your stomach. You can feel the creep of warmth, it unfurls slowly and simmers outward. For him, you tighten the muscles there, feel his hand atop them as the bunch tightly.  _

_ “Breathe,” He commands softly, and you do, you take deep breaths that fill you with strength, that fill the pit of your core.  _

_ He steps away and you immediately miss his warmth, the support of him. But you hold, hold yourself steady and strong for him to examine, so eager and desperate to please him.  _

_ When Sam says, “Good, that’s good.” With a smile of softness and praise, you practically glow.  _

_ Your wings twitch happily, as if you could suddenly swoop into the air and never come down. The smallest smile curls at your lips and you think, for a heartbeat, he traces it with his eyes.  _

_ You are so young and filled with such eagerness, such newness that you think he wants a taste.  _

_ And perhaps you want a taste of something wise and beautiful and ancient, too.  _

* * *

When you wake, there is only pain and brutalness. Darkness shrouds the cavern you have been dragged to; the jagged peaks and dips of the cave are like teeth, like claws and you are in the heart of it. There is a fire, low and dimmed, that casts shadows across you. They seem to dance and writhe all on their own, little hedonistic creatures you have never seen before. 

It is nothing like before, like all that you have ever known. It is not bright or gleaming or startling in its grandness. 

It is small and cramped and terrible, leeching the life from you, whatever is left, anyways.

You can barely move, so aching and burning that even breathing is a form of pain. Your very existence is nothing but agony; all of the broken bones that lay inside you, useless and shattered, all of the bruising or fractures. And your wings--

_ Oh, your wings.  _

They burned, you think, and you can feel the charred flesh of them. The lack of downy soft feathers, the ugliness and weakness of them. They are useless, then, too. They are horrible, garish pink pieces of flesh that erupt from your back. The new skin, scabbing, has already begun, the skin all bright and waxy and tight. Infant looking and bald.

You wish you would’ve died.

You rattle out a groan, perhaps a sob.

There is movement in the corner of your eye before the shadows themselves seem to part and a figure emerges in your hazy, fading vision. A brightness that you would know anywhere, that has seared it’s way along the ridges of your heart, gold-lined and extraordinary. You don’t think you believe what you see--

_ It’s a vision _ , you think. _ Something false to tempt or torment me.  _

_ Perhaps I am in Hell,  _ you continue,  _ perhaps I am in Hell and this devil is here to torment me.  _

But Sam emerges in all his glory, his face awash with pain, too, eyebrows drawn inward, eyes so dark and burning and full of anguish. 

He kneels beside where you lay and the power of it is not lost on you; for such a valiant warrior of God to kneel, to drop down and bow his head to you,  _ to you,  _ so lost and fallen. Your heart trembles, your very being shivers and aches and cries out to him. A shudder of shadow, a ripple from you as if it is now what you own. 

“Oh, my dove, what have They done to you?” He finally speaks and his hand, so soft and warm and gentle touches the cold of your cheek. He could burn you, but you wouldn’t care, because that pain would come from him at least. It would come from the tenderness he treats you with now. You are certain it is some dream, some far off, fevered fantasy that you have conjured in all of your misery. 

But his touch is real, Sam  _ seems  _ real.

“H-How are you here?” You croak, “On earth with the beasts and me?”

He smiles almost fondly, the smile that he once granted you when he used to teach and guide you. The kind that knows so much, far more than you, and that marvels at your naivete. You feel as if you haven’t seen it in a millenia. Perhaps it’s been so long. Time is so meaningless to you both, only marked by experience and faded, hazy memories. 

“I am old,” He says, “So old that I remember when the earth was Ours and not for humans and beasts.” He brushes hair from your damp cheeks with a gentleness that is stunning to you, “I know how to travel between the worlds.” He drops his voice now, low and rumbling, “And I couldn’t leave you, not when you don’t know this new world.” He gives you a fracture of the smile he once gave you, now wobbling, eyes glittering in the low light with what might be tears. 

Can Angels cry?

“And someone has to keep you out of trouble, don’t they?” He tries to tease, but your laugh is swallowed by a choked out cry. 

He is so loyal that it  _ hurts.  _

“You have to leave soon, though.” You say, “You can’t stay with me.” You breathe, because you’ve never heard of such a thing. You’ve never heard of an Angel walking among such base creatures, caring for a Fallen. For a Demon like you.

The thought is new and infuriating and uncertain. How could you have changed so drastically? Why had They done this to you?

Did you deserve it?

“I can do what I please,” He responds as if it’s that simple. You know it isn’t. You know he could get into severe trouble--

“Sam,” You start, feel his name on your lips, so holy and sacred for you.

But he hushes your protests, commands you to sleep, to rest, to heal, and you let darkness overtake you once more, begging that when you wake again, he’ll still be here.

* * *

_Sam’s angry with you because you have forsaken him, gone against orders and placed your divine life in danger. You’re barely a fledgeling, wings still unscarred and brilliant. Your eyes are still bright and shining with the light of heaven. You are over zealous and your sword drips with the black, vile blood of demons, of creatures you slay_ _like cattle._

_ “I told you to fall back,” Sam scolds and his voice has dipped low and threatening, there’s a look in his eyes you don’t see often. _

_ “But I still defeated them!” You say with a radiant smile, slick oil blood coating you, splattered onto your pristine face and wings. “Did you see me?” You press with wide eyes, eager for his praise, “I used everything you taught me.”  _

_ You did and you’d been incredible, a flurry of steel and feathers and gore. But something about it itches at him, something about seeing you covered in the guts and blood of war and battle make him wary. You are too comfortable in it, he thinks.  _

_ You didn’t listen, he reminds himself, despite the way he wants to gentle and soothe you. He wants to give you what you want. He wants to swipe the blood from your cheek and tell you that you were fierce and incredible, that the heavens could’ve trembled with you. Hell should be scared, he wanted to say. But instead he swallows and shakes his head.  _

_ You put yourself in danger. You were reckless and proud and childish.  _

_ “It doesn’t matter. You need to listen to me.” He reprimands sternly and you flinch back, sensitive little creature that you are.  _

_ He wants to coo that he’s sorry, he wants to go easy and sweet as honey on you. He wants to teach you and guide you and lay you out beneath him so your wings spread wide on the ground and your halo flares with all your heat and glory. _

_ He wants to punish you and make you as scared as he was when he saw that you hadn’t retreated, that you hadn’t listened. He wants to cradle you inside his ribs, keep you safe and tucked away beneath bone and feather and flesh and shield you from all the heavens and hells and earths.  _

_ You look like you might cry, bow your head with fluttering lashes.  _

_ “I’m sorry, Samuel.” You say and it’s so formal that it makes him ache.  _

_ Call me Sam, he’d told you with a lopsided smile one day and you haven’t used his full, Angelic name since then, since now.  _

_ You drop to one knee, as is customary of Angels. You keep your eyes fiercely on the ground, drop your sword at his feet with a clatter that echoes through him, and recite the words each fledgeling is practically branded with, forced to remember and recite and practice; _

_ “I accept any righteous punishment you deem fit for me, for I am an instrument of God, and you act in His glorious image. I have been disobedient and I ask for your forgiveness.”  _

_ Sam hates this, swallows hard because he doesn’t want to be your General, your Punisher. He shouldn’t be soft on you, either, should treat you as any other fledgeling that he has taught and trained and guided into Holy War.  _

_ “Get up,” He says roughly, quietly. _

_ You blink, stare up at him from your knees and he has to look elsewhere, cast his eyes outward else they turn to something unfitting-- _

_ “Get up,” He says again and now you are spurred into action, rising to your full height once more. You gaze up at him in confusion, in anticipation.  _

_ “I won’t punish you,” Sam says quietly, “But you must obey me in the future. Do you understand?”  _

_ “Yes,” You breathe, relieved, looking up at him with such adoration.  _

_ Sam shakes his head, eyes you, tries to place distance between you two out of fear of doing something foolish like touch your face or your hair or your wings.  _

_ “You really are trouble, though, little dove, do you know that?” He asks with a wry sort of smile, watching as you follow him eagerly, that bounce to your step that marks you so young and fresh and new to their world. You burst and curl with new life, with the unmatched adrenaline that comes with the swing of a sword and sour blood caught on your hands.  _

_ You smile at him, a curling of your lips that he wants to feel against his, “Somebody has to keep me out of it then, don’t they?”  _

_ Sam barks out a laugh despite himself, feeling something unfurl in his great, broad chest.  _

* * *

The next several days are a blur of wretched pain and sleep, all darkness, as you are becoming accustomed to. It is your new home, after all. But Sam is there, always there when you wake. He does not leave your side and it is all slow, horrible process. You heal fast, like all Angels or Demons or in between creatures. But what you heal into, what you become, is something you have hated and hunted for centuries. 

Sam should kill you, by the righteous blade of his sword, he should plunge it into your chest. Would you bleed black or gold? Angel or Demon? Have you fallen and turned so quickly? Are you already so unrecognizable?

Your feathered wings don’t return, instead the skin grows tough and silk and leathery, bruising darker. They are hideous and throbbing, still, make you want to hide in such shadows that you once abhorred so much. You don’t want Sam to see you this way. 

But he does. 

And he does not blanch or balk. He is not horrified with the new, growing form of you. He shows no sign of hostility, only the same gentleness that he has always given you so graciously. Not even when your eyes turn wide and crimson, or when your teeth begin to sharpen with sudden bursts of emotion. 

You become unrecognizable to yourself. Monstrous.

“Will you kill me?” You ask when you are almost fully restored, and your eyes are wide and glittering in the dark. 

“Why would I kill you?” He responds, but he goes very, very still. 

“Because I’m becoming a Demon and you know it. Will you kill me?” You ask again, with a child-like bluntness that turns his stomach inside out. You tilt your head in a way that you used to, when you pressed and questioned him, so curious and seeking. 

“Will  _ you  _ kill  _ me?” _ He counters, looking into your transforming eyes. “Since you are becoming a Demon and you know it.” 

“No,” You say, quickly, “No, I would never.” 

Sam touches your neck, brushes fingers there delicately, “I wouldn’t, either.” He promises on a breath, and his touch is warm. So warm. He glances at your wings which are growing strange and horrid, so you shrink away, skitter backwards and try to hide them from his gaze. He used to love your wings, feathered and soft and to be touched and loved--

“Don’t hide yourself from me,” He says into the soft, flickering light. And he steps towards you again, “There are few places to hide here, anyways.” He then teases, because you are both still in the cave, and he gives you a smile that you have missed  _ dearly.  _

You eye him warily, though, before stepping towards him and letting your wings unfurl wide and proud and horrible. As if you could scare him. They are great and shadowy, like a bat’s wings, hooked and sharp and so deeply violet they may be black. They almost glitter in the haunted light, looking ghoulish and casting such tormented shadows upon the cave walls. You think you belong here, and he does not.

“Why don’t you leave?” You ask then, looking at the hooked, vicious shape of your shadows, “I am healed. Why do you stay?” You ask and you can feel something wretched growing inside of you, the inevitable pain you will feel for his loss. You know he cannot stay with you. You were foolish to think otherwise. So you can feel your teeth sharpening, you can feel your eyes simmering into a new, vibrant red. 

“Why do you stay?” You ask again, and there is a new sound to your voice, vibrant and slithering and vicious. 

But he only gazes at you in awe, at the wide reaching span of your wings, at your new teeth and eyes and claws. He marvels at you, as if you are something beautiful, when you are the furthest from. Gone is his little dove, his little seraphim, killed and swallowed by the raven, the darkling. You are new again, just as you were when he first met you. 

He steps towards you, unafraid, steps into your darkness. His light combats with your dark, each vying for more, give and take. His hand reaches up and slides against the strong muscles of your wings. You gasp at the heat, the touch of him. The sensitivity of it. He gets closer and you can feel the angles and lines of his body, the fire within him, the star that burns so brightly at his core and behind his eyes. 

You tremble on some new beginning, breath hitching. 

He flattens his palm for a firmer touch, glides along the violet leather of them. You find his eyes, molten and burning in the darkness. As if he cannot be quelled or stopped or doused. So glorious and brilliant in his light and he still gazes at you with such amazement, such love. 

It steals your breath away and you shudder when his other hand finds the curve of your ribs, your waist. 

“Because I have a new world to show you.” He tells you then and you lean forward as if commanded, as if you are unable to resist, until your lips are just a breath from his. Drawn to him as you have always been. 

The throb of your heart is loud in your ears, in the cage of your ribs. 

His lips smile against yours, eyes hooded and flaming, “But I don’t think I can call you dove anymore,” He says, brushes his lips against yours in a way that almost makes you whine, “You’ve outgrown it.” 

And he covers his lips with yours, kisses you deep and desperate and dark. It is wild, a fierceness that is new and foreign but lovely and  _ right.  _ Something breaks free inside of you, something that was dormant and now wakes with wide, sharp eyes. A beast that slumbers, but now jolts forward. Your need for him becomes violent, curved, and dipped in your newfound darkness. 

He  _ groans,  _ low and deep when your nails dig into the back of his neck, his shoulders. His mouth is open and moving and warm against yours. His hands are broad and strong, as they always have been, guiding and firm as they push you back. You’re pinned to the cave wall, the coldness seeps in, the rough stone against your new wings, against your back. 

There is no preamble, no gentleness, no waiting. He hitches your leg up, pushes in like he belongs there. Like you’re still home.  _ He does, _ you think,  _ he always has. _

There is nothing divine about your coupling now, not like when you were new and soft and the dew still clung to you. Not when you were filled with dawn and all it’s gold and rose and hazy vibrancy. When you touched with a tentative eagerness, your eyes swimming with adoration and trepidation and love. 

You sink sharp hands into his wings, feel his growl against the fluttering pulse at your neck. You don’t think you’ve ever heard such a noise from him, something so base and unholy. It makes you shudder, and you let out a broken, half moan. 

You can already feel all the heat and pressure building, can feel him heavy and deep in the pit of you, filling you, breaking you open and apart. He lays claim to this new you, too, just as he had so many years ago. 

He gets rougher, teaches you to be brutal with him, to be primal. 

You wonder if this is how Adam and Eve felt after they’d eaten the fruit, after they’d disobeyed. You wonder if they’d felt this free, this powerful. You wonder if Sam feels it, too, feels this surge between you two. You wonder if he knows this is damned, this is hellish. This is cursed love now, you think. And it only makes you want to claim him more, suck the glittering life-blood from his body, sink teeth and nail into flesh and wing. You want him to be yours by his very marrow, you want to burrow in him, possess him. 

It doesn’t take much, not with this frenzy, this heat and love, and you fall apart with a cry, a bitten off snarl. 

“That’s it,” He grunts, “That’s my girl,” He gets out and his smile is a little more hooked, a little sharper, too proud, arrogant because he’s wretched your pleasure out of you, made you his, too. 

“My darkling.” He coos into the line of your jaw, into your very heart. 

* * *

_ The first time Sam lays you down in the garden, you are breathless and curious and nervous. He’s slow with you, as sweet as the thick, flowered air. Your wings fan out beneath you, a vision of softness, thick and lovely. You glow bright and sparkling under the rays of sun and he marvels at you with a smile, with wonderful, kind eyes.  _

_ When he touches you, slides palms along the lines of your body and covers you with his broad, muscled body, you squirm and blush. His wings cover you, shroud you in shadow.  _

_ “Look at you,” He murmurs with such a fond smile, a tenderness that is only reserved for you. “Like a little dove.”  _

_ You smile at him, impish, blowing your hair from your face until he laughs. “And what are you?” You try to tease, but your voice is hushed, like there’s a secret tucked behind your teeth. “Something mighty and strong and old?”  _

_ “Oh, I’m old, now?” He counters, just as he slides his palm against yours, forces your hand down gently to the earth. _

_ You giggle, nudge his cheek with your nose. “If I am a dove, then you are,” And you bite your lip, think for a moment, but Sam follows the movement with his eyes, wants to be the one with your lip between his teeth so he kisses you, slow and deep. _

_ You smile into the kiss, because he’s over eager, because he’s smiling, too. _

_ You push him away a little, “You never let me finish,” You whine playfully, kick a little to be disobedient.  _

_ “What am I to you, then, baby?” He asks with happy, sparkling eyes.  _

_ And you look at his wings, so brilliant and sharp and strong, richly brown and gold and stunning.  _

_ “A falcon,” You say, “If I am a dove, then you’re a falcon.”  _

_ His lips hitch up before they’re being pressed to you again, eager and soft and full of love. He spreads you out beneath him, opens you up all vulnerable and you’re a little scared, a little tentative, but so desperate and in need of him that you arch and squirm and sigh for him. _

_ He praises you in a hushed voice, guides you with strong hands. He pushes inside of you and it is new and painful and sacred. You bleed gold the first time and all is laid out in the light and he moves in you so sweetly, so achingly perfect.  _

_ It’s holy, your halo aflame all bright and burning and fire blue around your head and he laughs because of the surge in your power. You flicker between forms; half and full and he thinks you’re everything. He gets you to fall apart for the first time, the sweet shock of it parting your lips with a gasp, with a bloom of pleasure that sets you ablaze.  _

_ “That’s it,” He murmurs, “That’s my girl. My little dove.” He breathes against your cheek, and into your soul. _

* * *

You take to the skies when your wings have finished healing, when they are large shadows that protrude from your shoulders with a newfound pride. You grow into your new appearance, slowly at first, but the moment you feel the wind beneath your new wings, you feel stronger than you ever have. 

Sam flies beside you, unfurls his wings wide and large beside your own. You glide alongside each other, the wind against your face and the wide, open expanse of the skies that spreads before you. It used to be overwhelming, the vastness of the heavens, it used to humble you. 

But now all you can think about is covering all of it in your spectacular shadow. Devouring it all. You want to swallow all of the heavens and even hell, too. 

Sam’s wings touch yours, brush against it in a slow slide. 

You glance over at him, lift your eyes to his face, and decide that you want to devour him, too.

* * *

_ When you fly alongside Sam, it’s as if the skies have opened up for you both. It’s astonishing, terrifying. But you follow his lead, let your wings glide against his, just below his. You take refuge beneath him, find comfort in the strength he possesses.  _

_ He guides you, let’s you twirl and dive and swoop in the sky playfully. You try to race and soar and stretch your wings as far as they can go. And you still feel humbled and small and unknowing against all of the clouds and the heavens.  _

_ Sam watches you with love, with protectiveness. You look back at him, toss him a smile, and return to his side, dutiful and brilliant. You are small and content with it, content to be nothing more than a tool of God.  _

_ Content to be a creation for someone else.  _

* * *

The years tumble onward and you watch as humans change and shift and adjust on this earth you have been cast to. You lean into the new part of you, grow hungry and ferocious and decide that you can be something new.

You use all that Sam taught you, fight new Angels, kill them as easily as you’d once killed Demons. The first time Sam finds you covered in the glittering ichor of them, you are sure he will be disgusted with you. 

But it’s as if he gazes at you the way he had when you’d killed Demons once, still with a sort of reverence or fondness or astonishment. Perhaps like he might chastise you again. 

“Do you want me on my knees?” You ask him once, “Do you want me to beg for forgiveness?” You purr, pressing a blood stained hand to his chest. He eyes you with a quiet amusement, catches your wrist tight in the rough palm of his hand. 

“If you’re offering,” He responds, the smooth rumble of his voice that makes heat curl low inside you. It makes you want him, makes you want to give in to all your base desires of him. Would he take you like this, with all the gore on you? Does he want to? Is it a sin? 

You want to make him sin, you find, you curl your lips upward. Tempt and tease and simper until he’s got you pinned to the blood soaked ground, smiling roughly into your chest as he proves again and again that he owns some crooked, misshapen part of your heart. 

He shudders between his full and half form now and you prick your fingers on his thorns, receive burn marks from the heaven fire of his halo. Your own teeth and nails grow sharp and powerful, pushing into the muscles of his back, his wings, until his own sparkling blood drips onto your cheek, your neck.

Base, sacrilegious creatures that mark and move upon the ground. He gets you on your stomach, like a serpent, takes you in rough, hard strokes that make you burst open and fall again and again for him. Another fall from Grace, but this one so much better, so much sweeter and vicious. 

You think it can’t last, you think that he’ll suffer or you’ll suffer for this coupling. No Demon and Angel has ever endured the years, the war, the differences. You think he’ll end up falling for you and for all your selfishness, you can’t imagine that. He is the best of Them- the brightest of the Angels and you have tainted and marred him with your darkness. You’ve brought him closer to earth, further from the heavens. 

Still, he is the best of Them. And somehow, he is in love with  _ you,  _ somehow he risks damnation for  _ you.  _

He gazes at you with the same tenderness he always has, as if you are something beautiful and holy. His eyes so kind, so full of heat and adoration for you. As if you haven’t fallen, tumbled down to the earth and exchanged your glory for nightshade, your soft feathered wings for the cutting brutality of your new ones. As if you don’t kill and slaughter Angels with everything he once taught you, stain your hands and your soul with their sparkling blood as if it could purge you. As if you are not something monstrous, as if he isn’t something miraculous. 

As if his love has not changed or faltered once over these many years; loyal to the bitter, screaming end of it all. 

* * *

_ You look up at Sam through the haze of a rose gold sun, he is in armor and sword in hand. He stands tall and proud, his eyes gentle on you, though. Always on you. _

_ “How long will you love me?” You ask playfully, the last of adrenaline from battle seeping through you, through him. He smiles at you as if he can’t get enough of you. _

_ “Forever.” He tells you as you dance away from his reaching hands, “Forever and then some.”  _

_ “What if I lost my feathers? And grew sharp teeth? And horrible eyes?” You challenge with a curling smile, as if you knew, “What if I was hideous?” _

_ “I would still love you,” Sam laughs, “And all of your hideousness.”  _

_ “Would you think it’s beautiful?” _

_ He catches your waist, the sensitive curve of your wing with his other large hand “On you?” He croons slow and sticky sweet as the last of the light drenches you two in gold and flesh pink.  _

_ “On you, it’d always be beautiful to me.”  _

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr @until-we-fall-in-love


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